


Home in Frost and Lights

by Anonymous



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anxiety, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21953011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Rational or not though, Sanji still felt too close to tears of panic at the thought that he might be late for Christmas Eve dinner with the love of his life.Or, love goes both ways.
Relationships: Nami/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33
Collections: Anonymous, OP Secret Santa 2019





	Home in Frost and Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays to [missallblue](https://missallblue.tumblr.com/)!!!!! I hope this is even remotely close to what you wanted... TTT

Sanji’s shift was running long. Being a grown man and all, with things like emotional stability and a rational mind and, hell, years of truly terrific therapy with Dr. Trafalgar You-Can-Call-Me-Lami-if-You-Want-but-I-Know-You-Don’t-Want, Sanji knew this was nothing to freak out about. Nami was not even remotely unreasonable; he had good reasons to be stuck at work ( _ but did he? _ ), he’d tried his best to extricate himself ( _ but had he? _ ), and sometimes things just  _ happened _ like this, even on one of the most important days of the year. If he explained himself and genuinely apologized, there was literally no reason to expect the worst.

Rational or not though, Sanji still felt too close to tears of panic at the thought that he might be late for Christmas Eve dinner with the love of his life.

So, he did what he’s always done when he felt like crying: he put out all the literal and figurative fires within reach with extreme prejudice. He whipped his kitchen into vicious and bloody shape. He inhaled a half-pack of cigarettes in record time. He picked a fight with Zoro.

_ Just go the fuck home _ , Zoro had hissed at him, at T-minus forty minutes to the time Sanji absolutely  _ had  _ to leave by if he wanted to cook all of the seven courses he’d planned for Nami.  _ You’re just pissing everyone off the longer you stay here, shitty chef! _

_ Every time I try to leave, things fall the fuck apart! _ Sanji had snarled right back, and it was truly a testament to what a shit show the evening had been at the All Blue that Zoro couldn’t even protest the truth of that. If Usopp had been there to help out, Sanji might’ve stood a chance—but Sanji’s far more managerially useful friend was off on some romantic Icelandic cruise with his fiancee, so Sanji only had Zoro. And Zoro was definitely not the type to step up and resolve the fourteen metric tons of logistical issues that were an inevitable part of running a world-famous restaurant on Christmas Eve. No, Zoro was good for two things and two things only—carrying heavy things like a half pallet of jasmine rice from the loading dock to storage, and hovering menacingly over raucous customers.

_ You’re gonna be late _ , Zoro had tried to warn him, thirty minutes after that, when Sanji was still in his chef’s gear, dealing with the new and sudden fallout of one of his chefs breaking her thumb from punching a customer. Sanji had lunged at Zoro with a frying pan, and Zoro had thrown a bag of rice at him.

He was losing his mind. Or at least, he was losing  _ time _ . Someone was surely fucking with him by turning the clock ahead twenty, forty minutes each time Sanji got the opportunity to glance up. He was sweating into his suit. God, he needed to get home and get the lamb in the oven and put up all the décor and fry up the vegetables and hope the speciality wine delivery wasn’t late and render the sauce and  _ shower _ and—

“ _ Go. _ ” Zoro didn’t scare him one bit, but in their years of vitriolic acquaintance, Sanji had come to know Zoro’s this-is-a-line-and-you’re-crossing-it voice. There were two sous chefs holding back tears at the far end of the grill and Sanji had no memory of anything he’d been snarling at them. “Grab a fucking smoke or something, just  _ step outside _ .”

Sanji wasn’t running. He  _ wasn’t _ . But in the state-of-the-art industrial kitchen that was all of a sudden so  _ smothering _ , with its reflective stainless steels and sizzling dishes and mess of smells everywhere, catching his breath outside suddenly seemed like a fantastic idea. One of the restaurant side doors opened out into a small, fairly enclosed alley. Sanji kept it meticulously clean, free of trash and debris and storage, for precisely these sorts of moments.  _ You need to create positive spaces for yourself _ , Dr. Trafalgar had told him.  _ Spaces you feel you have control over, something that isn’t work, that doesn’t control you _ .

Years of therapy, hah, and all Sanji could manage was a small shitty alley.

He stumbled out the side door, hair in his eyes and breath… somewhere, just not in his lungs. In his rush to step out, he’d left his jacket inside, which should have been fine because he could’ve sworn he had at least three crumpled cigarettes tucked in his pants pocket, except when he fumbled for them his pockets were empty and  _ fuck _ , how many smoke breaks was this, he’d smoked those an hour ago out the back loading docks hadn’t he, and dusk had already set along with the evening chill and Nami was going to get back from her three-month outpost expecting a warm welcome and delicious meal only Sanji was the shittiest boyfriend in the world who couldn’t even pull himself away from his restaurant for  _ one night _ and  _ where the fuck were his cigarettes _ —

A hand caught his, pulling him from the frantic fumbling in his pockets. At once, another hand lightly slipped something—a cigarette, hand-rolled, and that was the scent of Sanji’s favorite loose tobacco—between his lips.

Sanji’s breath stuttered on a gasp, and he was hit with a waft of his favorite perfume, the sight of his favorite hair, his favorite face.

“Nami-san—!”

She caught the cigarette when it tumbled from his mouth. An exasperated smile twitched at the corners of her lips, painted a warm liquid berry pink. She made a gesture with her fingers, with the cigarette tucked between, asking Sanji if he wanted it back. When he just continued gaping at her, she slipped the cigarette away and straightened.

His hand still in hers, Nami pressed a light kiss over his lips. He could feel her lip gloss transferring.

“Hi Sanji-kun,” she said, voice warm and rich like the toffee pudding cake on tonight’s dessert menu, the softest brushing texture Sanji craved to feel against his  _ bones _ . “I’m home.”

“Nami-san...” In contrast, Sanji thought he must’ve sounded like the dredges of eggshells and garlic skin going down the food disposal. “W-welcome home, I’m  _ so _ sorry, I meant to be home earlier to prepare and I just—and you had to come all the way here god I’m so sorry, how—what time is it—”

Nami shushed him with a hand on his chest. It was meant to soothe, but had only the unfortunate effect of making Sanji flinch, reminding him of the fact that he was wearing his chef’s coat stained with sweat and soaked in smoke—nothing fit for Nami to touch.

“Oh, don’t—Let me just go change—”

“ _ Sanji-kun _ .” Ever since the first day they met, she’d used versions of that tone with him. At first it was pure exasperation; Nami only liked the fawning attentions up to a certain point. There was a time (that Sanji genuinely cringed to remember) when he’d push her up to that point daily—but never over, though, never. The shifting forms of love he’d held for Nami throughout the years (and what years have they been!) had always held that baseline respect for her boundaries, and he’d never crossed them out of pig-headed ignorance.

(Other times he’s crossed them—or for that matter, the other times she’s crossed his and had to force  _ him _ to force the issue—were scribed vigilantly in his memory. Because how was he to learn and be better for Nami, if he didn’t remember, with  _ painful _ precision, everything that made him hurt her in the first place?)

These days though… These days, that tone of Nami’s held a third party. Ms. Viola, when she did a tarot spread for Sanji, explained it best.

_ The Devil _ , she had told him, holding up the card in question with its grotesque artistic rendering. Sanji had felt so resigned, first seeing it.  _ It’s quite the useful card, actually. It tells you to see the bad things haunting your life as a separate entity, a devil discrete from you. _

_ That’s the depression talking _ , were Dr. Trafalgar’s resonant and oft-repeated observation. Prophecy and prognosis, on the tongues of the women to whom Sanji quite literally owed his life, sounded startlingly similar.

So Sanji had to explain to Nami that if she were to be a part of his life (give  _ back _ to him in a way he’s never demanded or expected from her, truly), she might sometimes find a distance between them the precise width of the Devil tarot card. She’d patted her shoulder and said,  _ remind me to tell you about my favorite card later—Seven of Swords _ .

And then she’d held him, body-to-body, squeezed him so tight there was no room for anything to come between them.

_ Don’t worry _ , she’d murmured into his chest, the tips of her ears poking out from her mane of hair bright red.  _ I’ll take care of it, and I’ll take care of you _ .

Her tone of exasperation, after that, had always been directed at the ballooning of their least favorite third party. Never Sanji, not in moments like this.

It gave Sanji the courage to breathe, and force his own shoulders to relax.  _ Spine _ , Dr. Trafalgar would always guide him.  _ One vertebra at a time. Feel them. _ He felt his biceps, forearms, then fingers relax in Nami’s grip.

“Okay, I’m—” He laughed helplessly, more for the gesture than out of actual glee, but it kind of worked. His chest felt lighter, more capable of holding itself up under Nami’s palm. “I’m here. Sor—Thank you, Nami-san.” Then, he couldn’t help the light furrowing of his brow. “I don’t mean this in a bad way, you know that, but… What are you doing here?”

Sanji had bought more than his fair share of makeup for Nami in their years together, and while he didn’t recognize the particular shade of blush she was currently wearing, he definitely  _ could _ recognize that the new wash of red belonged to blood and skin, not cosmetic powder. Nami was  _ blushing _ , just a bit, under the single incandescent bulb hanging above the All Blue side door.

Nami took a deep breath and turned her nose regally up, the way she did when she steeled herself to do something mildly embarrassing.

“You look cold,” she declared. Big ivory buttons were strung across the front of the navy military-cut coat she wore, and she undid them all quickly—quickly enough that Sanji caught on to the potential source of her embarrassment. “You  _ are _ cold. Here, take my coat.”

And, with her misdirectional flourish, Nami swished the coat off her shoulders in a grand billow of wool and cashmere, draping it over Sanji’s instead.

Sanji finally got to see what she was wearing underneath, and felt his heart physically stop for a beat.

Royal purple. The fabric didn’t so much compliment her skin as  _ kissed _ it, petaled it. The bodice went sheer in innocuous places—biceps, little splits on the belly, and the barest trimming above the start of the skirt. Gold lace was crocheted into flowers, forming delicately woven windows everywhere the dress opened.

The skirt spilled down from her waistline like a grand pour of wine. It brought with it trickles of that same gold thread, almost ivory in their singularity. Nami had a physicality well-loved by herself, Sanji, and surely others, and that love showed in the sculpted thighs that dress got to dance around, the belly that would be firm to the touch, the taut stretch of skin first smooth across her collarbones, then beautifully rough and inked on her left shoulder. Her tattoo sat like shadowed bramble beneath the rose lace, and as Nami started to slowly turn, Sanji got to see the scars and the pinwheel bring the gold to life. Blooms on his beloved’s skin, and Sanji  _ ached _ to just become a sigh of breath, so that he may touch but not soil her.

But Nami was the one who touched him. Heedless of the sweat and grime, she slipped her arms around Sanji’s neck with enough familiar pressure to make her intention  _ known _ . Her eyes were like brandy, and Sanji felt hit with the lightheadedness that came with first smelling the cork when she, that lovely and eager smile gracing her lips for the first time that evening, pulled him down and—

Each kiss with her felt—well, how was a man to describe the indescribable? He had no gift for poetry, had only recitations available to his tongue, but wasn’t it also true that all cooking came from existing ingredients? If Sanji could proclaim religion to  _ any _ philosophical prosaim it would have to be the one about wholes being more than the sum of its parts because that’s what his cooking, his life, his putting-back-together-of-a-man-named-Sanji was all so desperately about.

And when Nami kissed him, she kissed  _ him _ . On her lips, he  _ was, _ and he got to  _ be. _ Not the spice but the tingling, not the flour but the thickening—not the shattered dish tossed out of a millionaire’s kitchen, but the one holding the hearty soup to pick you up on a chilly winter’s day. If all Sanji had were words, it was Nami that made him into poetry. It not only made him lightheaded, but starry-eyed. The firm mould of her lips to his, the gloss and spit made white and gold flash before his eyes—the giggles and hint of teeth made pink flares and—wait, those are _ actual  _ lights, what the hell—

Nami broke off the kiss with a breathless laugh.

“Surprise, Sanji-kun!”

The alleyway was lit up in a tunnel of glowing fairy lights. Frosty pinks, white and gold. Nami standing in his arms in the center of it all, looking beautiful and  _ oh so pleased _ with herself.

“Merry Christmas,” she said. Then added, with a head tilt of playful exasperation, “eve.”

Sanji was entirely frozen in place. He had gone entirely, thoroughly,  _ tundra _ blank.

“...Vivi said you’d have to reboot.” Making a little whiney noise, Nami once again got her arms around Sanji’s waist. Sanji’s hands immediately descended to touch her shoulders, trailing in awe across the delicate stitching. “I know this is sudden and maybe weird, but I wanted to do something for you…!”

When she looked up, Nami had on her favorite get-me-out-of-trouble pout, but Sanji could see the genuine disquiet in her eyes.

“You’re always cooking for me and taking care of me—you’re the greatest home to come back to, you know that? They gave me an earlier return schedule last week, and I just thought tonight, maybe, I can be the one to bring you home for a change.”

Sanji clutched his shaking hands around the coat Nami wrapped around him, and blinked back genuine tears.

“If you—” Nami’s eyes had gone a little wide, and one of her hands danced up to his cheek in a distressed flutter. “— _ babe _ . If you cry every time I say something kind of nice to you, people are going to get the worst ideas about our relationship.”

“I’m s—” This was the second time tonight he’s had to catch himself on an apology that was neither necessary nor wanted. Nami grinned encouragingly when he regrouped. “No, it’s been a long,  _ long _ day is all, Nami-san, and that you did something so, so  _ good _ for me—I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say,” Nami began, beginning to undo the buttons on Sanji’s chef’s jacket. Her hands were surely coming off greasy, but she didn’t look like she minded one bit. “What you always say. That you love me.”

Sanji’s incredulous huff of laughter came out stuttered, as he helped her guide both her coat and his jacket off his shoulders. The shirt underneath was, as expected, sweat-stained, but nowhere as badly as Sanji had thought. Nami’s coat returned to his shoulders even made him look  _ good _ .

“Is that enough?” he had to ask, chasing her lips with a desperation he so often felt when it came to Nami.

“Haven’t you always trusted me to know what I want?” was Nami’s reply, eyes agleam with the gentle frost of a thousand fairy lights, dress softly dancing against the top of Sanji’s shoes. The shoes had been bought two years ago by Nami, and he’d worn them since then with such squeezing, breathless pride. “Don’t stop now.”

“I love you,” fell out of Sanji’s mouth like the unfurling of budded petals, the pour of fragrant wine. “I love you,” like the gleeful kiss of snowflakes whipped so cleverly past scarf and mask and earmuffs. “I love you,” like nourishment, like food that Sanji was always,  _ always _ there to provide.

Nami pecked him on the tip of his nose, and swiped away the lipstick print with a fond thumb.

“I know. Now come on.” Hand-in-hand with the loveliest girl in the world, who had said to him once,  _ I’ll take care of you _ , and meant it, Sanji’s head was completely cleared of all other voices, even his own. No gap of space between him and Nami, no devilish whisper to coil like smoke around his brain—all thanks to this woman who wielded swords and had the scars to prove it.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
